Crime time
by planet p
Summary: AU; True Crimes host, Shannen Cleary, has a close encounter.


**Crime time **by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own_ the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

**Author's Notes** OC-centric, T? Title sucks!

* * *

_When most people think of Shannen Cleary, they think of the TV show, _True Crimes_, a made-for-television true crime investigative series that I host, and they think of me, in my ridiculous outfits – I always make an effort to fit in, wherever I go, though sometimes that effort lands me in more bad books than good – with my ridiculous questions and remarks, and mostly, most people hate me!_

_I guess I'd hate me too. Sometimes, watching my show, or reruns of my show, I do hate myself._

_They see me in outtakes, tacked on at the end of the show right before the credits roll and they're getting ready to change the channel – finger on the buttons; vocal chords strained in anticipation of the shouting match over who gets the remote, who gets the change the channel, who gets to watch what – searching for something better than _another_ episode of _True Crimes_. They see me stomping around, or shoving my hand in front the camera lens; hiding behind, or next to, my trailer; rolling my eyes; making a sour face, or some snide remark – and they hate me._

_For once, I just want people to see me for who I am, not for show I host and the bad mood it settles inside my bones. I've hosted several special live questions-and-answers nights or forums for just that reason._

_I've people who love me as well as hate me. They don't call me Shannen or Cleary, they call me Shanny. I've had people write and suggest I pose in a magazine in something 'a little briefer', a little more 'succinct', as though they think the only reason the network and producers hired me as the host is a nice piece of 'meat', a nice piece of 'flesh'._

_I want to write back, or shout in their face: I'm an INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER! To me, it isn't just entertainment – this isn't just a game – this is about truths and lies and what falls between, this is about lives and who gets away unscathed – who gets to live – and who gets villainised – who has to die – after the axe has fallen!_

_I care about what I do, but no one can see it!_

* * *

Shannen did not stop walking as cars and trucks whizzed past her, some honking, or slowing – but after watching her power walk away from them – going on again.

Any moment could be her last, she thought over and over in her head, as she tensed at the sound of each approaching vehicle. She'd researched – and had watched so many shows and documentaries; heard so many stories, or on the news – about people dying this way: run over in a hit-and-run, or kidnapped and kept for later and then killed, or tortured before being killed.

She could just have asked to borrow a cell phone when the next car pulled up, ready to offer a lift, she supposed, but she knew how dangerous even that could be, so she kept walking, didn't stop, charged on ahead. She told herself that if she walked far enough, she would come to somewhere, someplace, where there would be a pay phone. It didn't matter that her car had broken down and she'd had to leave it on the side of the road, it didn't matter that her cell phone battery had just died – because soon she would be safe.

But soon always became later, and it started to rain. Not just drizzle, either, but bucket! She was soaked through and freezing cold, and her legs didn't want to move anymore.

She wondered how far she had walked, and when she turned around and squinted through the rained bucketing down all around her, she couldn't even see a speck that had been her car, or might have been her car. She wanted to sit down and pray for it to stop raining, or for a police car to come by and rescue her, but she kept walking.

She thought of the little photograph in her wallet – not of her own children, because she had no children, but of two teenage boys she had researched for _True Crimes_, Bobby and Jimmy, who'd been best friends until Bobby had killed Jimmy, and 13 years later, America had learnt about it on their television sets – and wondered why that was, why Bobby had killed Jimmy, really, and not just in Agent Jarod Cross's head.

If she took her mind of walking – and freezing – and applied it to something else, it wasn't so bad, so she set her mind to why Bobby had killed Jimmy, which only made her wonder why JR had killed Ursula, or why anyone else had killed someone they had once cared about deeply – their family or a friend – why the incidence of such crimes was so high?

She should have been comforted, she supposed, that she had no family or friends who would just burst onto the scene, suddenly angry for some reason, and murder her, only for it to be made into a television show hosted by a stupid blonde years later. But the truth was, she wouldn't have minded a few friends, or a family, even if it would only get her killed in the end, one way or another.

She laughed at herself, stumbling around in the dark, newly fallen, and thought that maybe she'd been wrong about the number of cars who'd been willing to stop and offer her a lift, maybe none of them had ever been willing to do that, maybe they'd slowed only because they'd seen her and thought she might try to jump in front of their vehicle and kill herself, or maybe they hadn't slowed at all and it had been a combination of paranoia and wishful thinking on her part, and she thought that none of the thinning stream of cars would stop at all tonight – and maybe she'd be attacked by a wild animal, or she'd die of exposure, or hypothermia?

She'd just stiffened and slowed, thinking she'd heard a coyote, when she heard the squeal of tyres, and was doused in a beam of UFO-bright white light.

She turned around, and against her better judgement – and her once-again mounting paranoia – walked toward the light, and toward the vehicle she knew was the source of the light.

* * *

Shannen thought that maybe when he saw that she was wet – it had stopped raining a while ago, though Shannen couldn't be sure how long ago – the man would put the heater on, but he didn't.

He didn't even say anything, and she didn't say anything to him.

She had gotten into a car with a total stranger without a word! She wondered if she was mad, if maybe the sustained exposed to the cold and the rain had sent her mad. He hadn't asked her where she was going, or even her name.

She tried to stop shivering and turned and looked at the man.

He had short dark hair and a suntan – she's remembered the bit about the tan from when he'd opened the car door for her and the lights had come on inside the car – though she couldn't see his face very well and she couldn't tell what colour his eyes were or what they looked like – if they looked like trustworthy eyes or not, which seemed like a ridiculous notion anyway – and if she had to estimate, he looked as though he was in his middle to late fifties, almost a twenty years older than herself.

She pressed herself into the seat and prepared herself for the worst and said, "I'm Shannen."

"I'm driving," the man replied, "and I don't need to be distracted whilst I'm doing so, unless, of course, you've a particularly strong death wish, Shannen."

Shannen refrained from swallowing and did not respond.

After a couple of miles, the man spoke again, his eyes remaining on the road ahead of them through the windscreen. "What do you do, Shannen?"

Shannen's stomach tightened and she felt sick. She wanted to make the man stop the car so that she could get out and continue walking, but she sensed that that was not an option, that it would not be a good idea at all to try to broach this subject with the man. "I'm a teacher," she said, "a substitute teacher."

"No you're not," the man told her, as though he knew better than she did, everything about her. "What are you really? No lies, Shannen. Friends don't lie to one another. We're friends. I'm giving you a ride." And then he took his eyes off the road – which made Shannen's stomach jolt; he should have been watching the road – and looked into her face, and she saw that his eyes were bright blue – the colour of blue Smarties, she thought – and she knew that she was not getting out of this alive.

"I'm a reporter. I host a television documentary-type show focussing on the truth behind the myth and misconception of true crime." Even to her own ears, she sounded as though she was rattling out a well rehearsed sales pitch – utter bullshit, in other words – and wanted to slap herself. She could hardly bring herself to think about what she sounded like to the man.

"What's the name of your show?" the man asked.

Shannen's chest hurt. "It's… ah, it's not actually my show," she corrected hastily, and could have kicked herself, on top of another slap.

"What's the name of the show you host?" the man asked in exactly the same voice as before, no difference.

"It's called _True Crimes_," Shannen told him.

For a long time after that, nothing was said, and then Shannen could see lights, and then the lights became the sign of a motel – a motel with vacancies – and the car was slowly down.

"I'm Alex," the man told her, and stopped the car across the road in front of the motel, and turned to her and stared at her.

For a moment, she was scared he was going to try to touch her, or do _something_ to her, but he was only waiting for her to take the money he held out in his hand.

"I- No," Shannen said, "I have credit. It's okay. You… you can keep it. I- Thank you for picking me up, really."

"It's not okay," Alex told her. "You take it. The motel's credit facilities are down."

Shannen refrain from swallowing once more and took the money, and saw that her hands were shaking, which made her chest hurt even more.

"You should take your clothes off as soon as you can and get dry," Alex told her, and then he leant closer and leant across her – she pressed herself as far as possible into the seat, her heart racing – and pulled the door handle to open the door and pushed it open. "As soon as you can," Alex repeated, and Shannen climbed out of the car, her whole body shaking now, and forced herself to stand perfectly still until the car – and its occupant – had driven away, and out of sight.

* * *

_Okay, __this is lame!_


End file.
